traveling; south then west
over to the crater
that was once a crescent moon
for a party
at the ends of the earth:
I think of Morocco
and Burroughs
and the wasted deserts
of West Texas.
I hop into demons
and scorch the sky;
on whims as flimsy
as balsa wood planes
and the bella next to me
says she doesn’t mind if
I touch her tits while she sleeps:
delicate lips and rolling R’s
make it so I can but won’t:
there is some innocence
that should remain,
if only to paint my sins
a deeper crimson.
screaming at low volumes
